We were centred in the most fashionable part of the city—Hotel Deux Monde, on Avenue de l’Opera, which is midway between the Palais Royal and the Louvre. We have frequently stood on this and other avenues for one half-hour waiting for an omnibus to stop: they pay no attention to the flourishing of an umbrella. Finally, wishing to reach some remote district, you call a carriage to your assistance out of the thousands anxiously waiting the job, when every cab-driver for squares starts after you, and you can imagine yourself added to the long list of unclaimed dead, who, I imagine, receive about as much attention as one of the many horses you see lying dead during a short ride. On the other hand, we could be driven in state almost anywhere for, say, thirty cents apiece, and only three dollars for a seat at grand opera, which you pay five for in New York. Or you can visit the Louvre, and feast your eyes without hindrance upon treasures which kings cannot buy. You can drive in the Bois or walk up the Champs Élysées—that magnificent avenue—nowhere else is the eye more delighted with life and color. At the fashionable hour of the day, the Champs Élysées its entire length is crowded with people. There could not have been less than ten miles of spectators in triple rows who took their place to watch the turnout of fashion and rank; vehicles of every description, splendid horses, and magnificent liveries. Any place else but Paris would be a jam. Whenever the sun shines all Paris is out, no matter what part of the city you happen to be in. At the entrance to the Exposition a sight greets your overstrained optics that opens them wide. We enter the Rue de Rivoli, with its Corinthian colonnade—the longest in the world. Here an opportunity is afforded to peep in on the original Redfern. We passed on to the Place de la Concorde, the largest and most beautiful in Paris, the memorable spot where Louis XVI. was beheaded. In the centre rises the obelisk, between two majestic fountains, whose springing jets, a quivering pillow of water, matched the stone shaft of Egypt. As you look down the avenue you have the dancing column of water, the obelisk, the Arc de Triomphe, all in a line, and the trees and the golden sunset beyond. At this point (the Arc de Triomphe) twelve beautiful avenues meet, which I could name if I called in the assistance of a guide-book. On the top of this edifice a splendid view is obtained. The Champs Élysées, with its myriads of gas-lights, is a unique sight. It is right here that we sat down one evening and discussed whether we would visit the Exposition, with its great pyrotechnic display, or sit and watch the people enjoying themselves in their own characteristic way. We chose the latter.
When you compare the delicious cooking of the French with that of the Germans (which becomes quite monotonous after many weeks), it is in favor of the French, if you don’t know exactly what it is, with its odds and ends. You realize a great deal for your money in variety and quantity, and it seems to satisfy your hunger. None of it is as good as our own home cooking, no matter what the epicurean may say to the contrary. One of the pleasant things of Paris is the exquisite gentlewomanhood that is shown you everywhere in the shopping district: no matter how tired they may be, the customer never sees it. A tact and delicious gaiety shown by the saleswomen called forth my lasting gratitude. Then, too, you “kinda” like Paris, when for fifty cents you can buy the glove you must pay two dollars for in our land of great industries. These and many other things make you repel the idea that we excel in everything. Far from it. Paris is wide awake when more puritanical cities are fast asleep. They seem not to want to be rushed to bed, nor hurried out in the morning. It is all less a moral affair with them than a physical and mental one; they move slowly, go to bed late, and consume equally as much time getting up. The crowded midnight streets, with their loud and singing parties driving by at every hour, affects one, if you have often heard it. The streets at eight o’clock in the morning have such a blank look that you think they have all left on a holiday. We had seen so much in Germany, where everything was bedecked and bepainted, that the Exposition had not the charm that it should have had, simply because it was a repetition on a larger scale of what we had been feasting on for weeks; even a thought of a palace, or the faintest hint of a museum or art gallery, caused a panic in our “household.” There is truly such a thing as having too much of a good thing. My chief delight was to visit the most fashionable shopping districts, and cut out art entirely. Although the whole city seems to be given over to fashion (and upon good authority I hear that these originators and designers of fashion make some change every six weeks in some part of the feminine wardrobe) as a means of filling its coffers, yet there is always one particular part or street that is the most exclusive, and where the most exclusive things are made and sold. The Rue de la Paix seems to be the headquarters for the most fashionable dressmaking and millinery. I think it was on this street that at least six hats were being trimmed for my inspection, which I never inspected. They are so willing and anxious to trim one exclusively for you, that, rather than disappoint them, I assented. “English spoken here,” as you see quite often in their shops, means this—“Do you speak English?”—“Yas, a leedle,” and here it ends. I visited Felix, the greatest of all designers, whose fame and work is enjoyed by the royalty of Europe, and extends as far as some of the Sultan’s favorites and a few of the Mikado’s court. He is on Rue de Honore. We learned when in company at Wiesbaden with the ex-President of the Argentine Republic and his wife and daughter for several weeks, that South American belles are among some of his most extravagant patrons, and it is certainly true, if they were fair representatives. Paquin’s is one of the most imposing places, as so many modistes have little shops or a corner of a shop that has no resemblance to our business establishments. With or without ostentation, Paris can justly lay claim to being the capital of the world of dress.
The Exposition suffered only by comparison with our Fair of 1893, on account of the crowded condition of the buildings, and the necessary absence of the landscape beauty, which so greatly enhanced our Chicago Fair. The United States building (as has been frequently remarked), was especially unfortunate in this respect. The very best view of it, from the Alexandria Bridge was entirely shut off by the Turkish building, which stood directly in its way. The thing that I thought the most unattractive, was the treatment or color-scheme of the mural decoration on its portal; an unfortunate cold, slate-blue tone, as I remember it, against the severe white building made it lack warmth, and repelled rather than invited. The German and British buildings were much more imposing and artistic; especially is this true of their interiors, as both countries have priceless art treasures to draw upon. Valuable tapestries were hung upon their walls, and the best in their national museums were transferred to their buildings. Of course we had no such fund to draw upon. The part of the Exposition that impressed us most strongly was the two Art Palaces, which are to be permanent buildings, and are well worth a visit to the Exposition. No words could express the beauty and grandeur of these Art Palaces and the treasures they contained. We experienced deep gratification as we lingered near the statuary of MacMonnies and St. Gaudens, whose “grand prix” were as numerous as on the paintings in the United States exhibit. In front of this beautiful palace we listened to the harmonious strains of the national French air, which seemed to touch the heart of every born Frenchman, who not only uncovered his head, but arose to his feet and joined loudly and feelingly in his national hymn. As the last strain died away, leaving a pleasant and happy feeling with all, I was both glad and thankful for this privilege, and had a greater respect for the Frenchman.
Whistler’s paintings at the Exposition are dreams of color; it is said “they are the pink of Fragonard, the brown of Rembrandt, the amber of Titian, the gray of Whistler”; that undefinable gray called “the gray of mist and of distance,” is made of all the shades—a little white, a little blue, a little green. He is called the “symphonist of half tints,” the “musician of the rainbow.” “No other painter has understood as well the mysterious relations of painting to music—seven colors, as there are seven notes—and the way to play them with what might be named the sharps and flats of the prism. Even as a symphony made in D or a Sonata in A, Whistler’s pictures are orchestrated according to a tone.” “The Lady with the Iris,” for example: the mauve flower placed in the hand of the woman is a note signifying that the portrait is a colored polyphony of lilacs and violets. The Luxembourg has Whistler’s greatest work,—the portrait of his mother. A French art critic says concerning the picture: “What a bold and novel line is the one of that long body, hardly perceptible in its black gown! What a psychological penetration is in the face! The mind of the sitter colors with the pink of a sunset her cheeks that age has made pale. The whites of the picture—the white of the lace bonnet, the white of the handkerchief held in the hand with the gesture of a communicant—are infinitely chaste. Does not old age bring me back to initial purity? The deep black of the drapery, studded with small flowers, is significant. Behind it the entire life of the woman palpitates but disappears. To make an accord of those whites and blacks—the gray that adheres to the walls floats in a mist, extends the softness, makes uniform its tint of pale ashes, as if it were the ashes of years fled from a material heart.” Whistler and Poe, it is said, are the greatest men of genius in Art that America has produced. The figures that they have created have the same haunting effect—apparitions emerging from the twilight of backgrounds. They are enigmatic personages. One does not know if they are entering life or going out of it.
CHAPTER XI
LONDON
WE dreaded, as every one does, the crossing of the Channel. It has no friends in the world; even veteran sailors will call it “the nastiest bit of water in the world.” We not only crossed it, but sailed up through its length into the North Sea, and found it about as peaceable as any, and a very much slandered bit of water. The hatred is so strong between the people that line its shores, it is not to be wondered at if it is sometimes disagreeable, just to be agreeable. Our household was greatly disturbed while crossing the Channel, and although the day was cold enough for one to be snugly wrapped away in a rug, yet nothing but a stand near the guard rail, as far front in the bow as possible, where the cold wind hit the hardest, would satisfy. The fish saw rather a pale, wan face as it occasionally fed them. After taking a train for Charing Cross, London, we wound our way through numberless railway tracks, sometimes over a road and sometimes under one, now through a tunnel, then past the chimney pots, as we came into the pale light and thickened industry of London town. Even the ’bus drivers tell you how disagreeable London is at times, when everybody falls hopelessly into the dumps. By the way, they are a coterie of highly informed gentlemen on whatever you wish to know, and take a keen delight in pointing out objects of interest. Be sure and take a seat beside the driver on one of these “double-decker omnibuses,” even if you do have the sensation of colliding or rather taking a header on the horses’ backs.
We were domiciled at Hotel Windsor, Westminster, where we had an opportunity of passing the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey whenever we went down town, which meant Trafalgar Square, the centre of the universe, it seems.
They can all rave about French cooking, but give me the substantial English meal,—“a dinner off the joint, sir,”—with what belongs to it, and a waiter to whom you can make known any other wants, and eating once more is a fascinating theme.
The gigantic London of the present day was once a small town on the banks of the Thames; in its expansion it has absorbed the more aristocratic city of Westminster and some eighty-five villages on both sides of the river. This fact, coupled with its great age and the undulating character of the district upon which it has grown, has rendered it very irregular in appearance. Crooked roads, narrow streets, gloomy slums, are some of the characteristics of the British metropolis. This condition of affairs was very much verified as we left the handsome Tower Bridge and walked through the fish market, with its numerous smells—a terribly congested spot—in order to visit the Tower, historically the most interesting building in London, or in the whole of England. To the east of it stands the old Roman wall. Tradition states that a fortress was erected on this site by Julius Cæsar, but the present structure, though part of it is Saxon, dates in the main from the days of William the Conqueror—and has been the scene of many tragedies. On this same trip we visited the Monument which was raised in commemoration of the big fire, and is near London Bridge. I have no pleasant memory of this climb, as, country-like, we climbed up its spiral stairway hundreds of feet to its top, where other foolish people have trod. I suppose we would have mounted Eiffel Tower if it had been possible. I didn’t know who looked and felt the silliest. We are that silly pot of flame on its summit. I asked what this meant, and was told: “The architect’s (Sir Christopher Wren’s) intention was to erect the statue of Charles II. on the summit, but he was overruled by some inferior judgment.” If they had allowed his designs to be carried out, London would have been the handsomest city in the world, as he is responsible for London’s most beautiful edifices, including St. Paul’s Cathedral, the finest and most famous edifice in London. They say that St. Peter’s of Rome is finer still; how can it be possible? It is a Renaissance structure of similar lines to St. Paul’s of Rome. Its beautiful exterior, although spoiled by London’s smoke, is exceedingly grand. The dome forms a far-famed whispering gallery, and a handsome marble pulpit; beautiful carvings by Grinling Gibbons, and a reredos which has given rise to much heart-burning. The ceiling of the choir and aspe has within recent years been decorated with rich mosaics by Mr. Richmond, R.A. But the most interesting parts of the building are the tombs of Nelson, Wellington, Wren, John Howard, Dr. Johnson, and others, and presidents of the Royal Academy; the last occupying a spot which is styled “Painters’ Corner.” As we took our seats under the nave, scarcely knowing what spot or corner on which to indulge our eyes longest, one by one dropped down into the pews with bowed head, for a word of silent prayer at our side; some no doubt beset with the trials of such a gigantic city, others lured hesitatingly from their pleasures—doubting, questioning at strife with self—while others came, throbbing with life and inspiration and ungratified aspirations, all hoping, fearing, but possibly desiring rest or peace. Did they find it? Soon the choir voices responded to the organ, and the vox humana stop was such a wonderful imitation that we sat mastered by the spell; but it was not in tricks of imitation that the organ was so wonderful, as in its compass—its power of revealing. We realized for the first time that we were in the midst of Vespers, a delightful surprise. I thought as we sat spell-bound under the influence of the music, what influences of earth and heaven, what meetings and warrings of aspiring souls, what struggles and contending passion and agony of endeavor and resistance had these silent sentimentals in marble been witness to! I wondered how many more surviving ones they would watch over, as they climbed the steep and rocky way, with the world and self to conquer, before their souls could attain the serene summit, amid a burst of triumph from a fuller orchestra than had ever yet been heard—the last Alpine storm and trial over, clouds rolled by, and the sunshine perpetual. As we left its sacred portals, the sweet evening hymn floated through the peaceful air. We went out into the busy street, crowded and motley, awed and a little comforted, proceeding in silence for some time.